


The Torment

by LittleSpacePrince



Series: To Build a Home [12]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Tony, Alpha Tony Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Bruce, Omega Bruce Banner, Omega Verse, Post Mpreg, Sad with a Happy Ending, this is us au?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 04:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpacePrince/pseuds/LittleSpacePrince
Summary: Prompt:Apologies. What is the toughest apology your character has ever made?In which hearts are broken and promises are kept.





	The Torment

There were said to be five stages of grief, according to the Kübler-Ross grief cycle. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Bruce Banner, however, thought it differently. The denial, the anger, the bargaining, the depression, it was not so linear. It became part of you, intertwining in your veins, overtaking every moment of every day until the point of acceptance was reached. According to poet Bridgid Patrick, there were, instead, a mere three stages of grief. 

 

The Torment

_Sorrow swallowed me into the cruel black sea,_  
_The icy cold water washed over me,_  
_Memories spin around in my mind,_  
_Causing dark lucid dreams of every kind._  
_Grief and misery played their part,_  
_Leaving behind a broken heart_

 

They kept him alive through the night, and through the next, and the next. Three days had passed, and Bruce refused to let him go. He was brain-dead, there was no doubt in that. Bruce rose to his feet once in those three days, to see the child that harbored no life left within him. Breath in his lungs, blood in his veins, but there was no sign of life. No flickering movements of his eyes beneath the lids, no fingers twitching, no uncoordinated little kicks like the ones that he’d felt within him. 

His child was dead.

Still, Bruce couldn’t bring himself to let go. He couldn’t bring himself to let them turn off the ventilator, couldn’t bring himself to send him off into that dark night. Instead, he let himself exist in limbo, the whole lot of them. He stayed in the hospital bed, cursing himself for letting it happen. Cursing himself for being so reckless, for taking risks with such dire consequences. He lay beneath sheets that didn’t belong to him, hardly moving, hardly speaking, hardly alive. 

Such depression led to neglect. Neglecting Tony in his time of need, neglecting his two living children, neglecting his own goddamn hygiene. It hurt too much to move, it hurt too much to look Tony in the eye, it hurt too much to hold his children in his arm, every breath a reminder of what he had lost. It was torment. Pure and utter torment, dragging him to his knees, until he was too weak to fight any longer. He fell to his knees, fell to the ground, and let the pain take him over.

“Bruce, please… Just… _Talk to me.”_ He begged. Still, Bruce sat still, silent in his agony. “Come on… Aileen needs her dad. Axel needs his dad. You can't just… You can't do this to yourself.”

“I failed them.” Bruce murmured. “I'm failing them over and over. Every day, I'm failing them.” 

“Bruce, you're not-” Tony began to protest. 

“I'm not lactating anymore, Tony. It's dried up. I can't even feed my own children. I can't even provide for the two that survived because my body doesn't know what the hell it's doing. I went into labor too early, and now my damn milk dried up.” The words felt like fire on his tongue, and Tony’s eyes were full of something like pity. He inhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm down. “I was supposed to hold them inside of my for nine months, but my body couldn't even do that. It's my fault his lungs didn't develop, it's my fault he's… I'm failing them over and over and over.” He spat, tears welling up in his mourning. 

The guilt was eating him alive, leaving him to wallow in his own self-hatred, despising the way his body had betrayed him, betrayed his children. Even the two children that had survived were feeling the effects of his shortcomings. He had tried, had pulled them into his arms in hopes that they would latch and the feeling of his child’s mouth lightly suckling against his teat would draw forth the milk he was meant to be producing, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. 

He could feel eyes full of pity watching him, and he despised it. He didn't deserve pity. He didn't deserve sympathy. He didn't deserve love. Still, Tony’s eyes watched him, and after a moment, he felt the shifting of his weight on the bed as he crawled in beside him, refusing to leave him be, refusing to leave him to his own devices, refusing to let him suffer on his own. Despite his shortcomings and his failures, Tony still loved him, and always would.

Arms slinked around his waist as the tears began to well up in his eyes, dragging a ragged sob from his chest as Tony held him close, lips pressing gently down the side of his neck, whispering gentle consolations in some attempt at comfort. He couldn't hear them though, the only sound being the sound of a father's weeping.

“It wasn't your fault.” Tony murmured, lips pressed against his ear. “It was no one's fault. Shit just happens sometimes. There was nothing that could've been done. No one could've saved him.”

Bruce curled tighter into himself, eyes clenched shut as the tears fell onto the pillow beneath him. His chest hurt to say it, to think about it, but even still, the words tumbled from his lips. 

“I could've.”

 

\----

 

The sun had long set when he made his decision. With a broken heart and a weary mind, he made it, knowing that prolonging the process would only prolong his suffering. He made up his mind after Tony had long fallen to sleep, knowing that this was not how sleepless nights were meant to be spent. He made up his mind, knowing that he would never be able to heal and be the father that his two remaining children deserved so long as he held on. 

He made up his mind. He had to let him go. 

He wandered down the hall, until he found the room where he was being kept. Alive but barely, not really, not truly. He lay still except for the soft movement of his chest, kept alive by machines, much like his father had once been, he supposed. Tony had once been kept alive by the arc reactor in the center of his chest, for years, had survived off the blue light kept burrowed beneath flesh. But there was no arc reactor that could revive his brain, no machine that could bring him back into consciousness. He was a shell. It was a cruel thing to keep him here.

Bruce slid tentatively into the chair that sat across from where he lay, the place where Tony had taken to sitting most days. There was a pang of guilt, of sadness, hand resting tenderly over the place where his children had once resided, now empty. The place where three children had thrived, kicking and squirming just beneath the surface, now only two to show for it. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what it felt like, all three of them in there. Wondering which movements belonged to the baby that lay lifeless in front of him, knowing that he would never be able to pinpoint exactly. 

Bruce leaned forward, pushing a hand through the small hole in the center of the glass, where a hole was cut out for hands of anxious and mourning parents to press through. To touch their sick and dying children, to say goodbye, to hold them in any way they could. Slowly, tentatively, Bruce let his fingers drift over his son's arm, over his fingers, curling them around delicate fingers. He was so _small,_ barely half the weight of his brother and sister. They had known that he was falling behind from the ultrasounds, but none of them had quite realized just how much. 

“I'm sorry, Aidan.” Bruce murmured, speaking his name for the first time since he'd found out what had happened, his very name too painful to even utter. Tears were beginning to well in his eyes even with whisper, fingers grazing over the baby's. “I was supposed to take care of you. Keep you inside of me until you were ready to come out. You weren't ready. It was my job to make sure you were okay. To get you ready to come into this world. But you came out too soon and now…” 

The tears flowed heavily and hard as he leaned forward to press his forehead against the glass. He kept his eyes shut, not being able to bear seeing him like this, so tiny, so frail, plugged to far too many wires, to a point where he hardly looked human anymore. His chest heaved, sobs silent as the tears came down, fingers still brushing over his tiny fingers. He hoped for something, some movement, like the touch of the man who had carried him from conception to birth would somehow revive him, but there was no such luck. 

“I’m sorry for not being there to save you. I’m sorry for not stopping this. I’m sorry, Aidan, I’m so sorry.” Bruce sobbed, holding tight to tiny fingers as he wept. 

There was no pain like the pain of a parent burying their child. There was no pain like giving up, no pain like surrendering his child to fate’s cruel hand. There was no pain like hospital rooms and ventilators, no pain like wires hooked to tiny bodies, just barely keeping them alive when everything else was long gone. There was no pain like death. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He begged for forgiveness, praying for some sign of movement, some sign of life. Some twitch of fingers, some sort of movement beyond the rhythmic breaths. Perhaps movement would mean forgiveness. Movement would mean hope, that he wasn’t quite dead yet, that there was something still within him. Maybe he was looking for a goddamn miracle to make up for his own shortcomings. 

But miracles didn’t exist. Bruce knew full well that miracles were meant for the silver screen, and that real life was hardly made up of such things. The omega had been to hell and back in his lifetime. He’d watched his father murder his mother, had sold all hopes of normalcy in a miscalculation and a risk, had been forced into foreign lands in attempts of hiding, had been made a slave to the beast within his bones. He had hoped for miracles to save him from his misery, but miracles didn’t happen. Blind luck and bad ideas had paved the road to where he’d wound up, and perhaps he’d wound up happy, but it was far from a miracle. Miracles were for children and fools, something to provide hope in the darkness. But there were no miracles here. There were no miracles for him.

Still, these children had turned him into a fool. No longer so calculating, no longer so afraid to let anyone past his barriers. These children had been conceived behind the barriers he’d built for himself, had always been so unconditionally and irrevocably loved, ever since they’d first appeared in the form of two pink lines. They had him hoping like a child, dreaming like a fool, praying to gods that he had lost faith in long ago. Anything to revive his child. Anything for them to take home their Big Three.

But still, the rule rang true. There were no miracles to be found. 

There were no miracles. There was no quickening of life in the boy. He remained nothing but a shell, somewhere between living and dead, leaving Bruce to do the unthinkable. Leaving Bruce to make the choice to let him go, leaving Bruce to bury his own son. There were no miracles on hospital rooms, and Bruce knew it as all hope drained from his bones. All that remained was the silence, and the desperate weeping of a father praying for forgiveness. 

 

\----

 

It was over.

On the fifth day, Bruce finally let him go. 

They had watched as they unplugged the machines keeping him alive, watched as the rising and falling of his chest slowed and fell one last time. The other Avengers had been there. As they had been for days. There had been an endless cycle of them coming through since the birth, though Bruce had refused to see them until then. He hadn’t wanted their pity, hadn’t wanted their affections, had simply wanted to be left alone to suffer. But the day that he decided to let go, he decided that he needed all the love he could get.

Tony had sensed a certain wishful thinking in the room, from all of them. Hoping for a damn miracle. Hoping that his chest would continue to rise and fall as they turned off the machines. Hoping that something would happen to save the last member of the Big Three. But there was no such luck. Aidan Banner-Stark was dead. 

The cries that rang out from that room were unlike any he’d ever heard before. Agonized unlike any before, the pain dragging them both down to their knees. Bruce had screamed as if he’d been ripped apart limb from limb, so agonized that his skin had started to change, hardening beneath Tony’s very fingers, eyes flashing green and skin beginning to follow, barely contained by the gamma blockers and Tony’s comforting words, despite the pain nearly enough to split him apart. Still, he forced himself to stay strong, if only for Bruce’s sake. 

There were tears, and hugs, and quiet condolences, but what did it fix? Their child was still dead, and Tony had broken his vow. He had promised that they would be leaving this hospital with three children and a healthy omega, had been so damn sure of it. But they were left with two children and an omega suffering from a heart broken, shattered into a million pieces and turned to dust. Tony had broken the one promise he’d made, and now all that was left were broken hearts. 

Bruce had asked to be alone after awhile, asking to share one final moment with the child that had grown within him for so long. A request that Tony granted, even through his pain. He had no right to ask for his constant affection, no right to beg for Bruce to hold him until he stopped feeling guilt. He let him say his final goodbyes, the goodbyes that Tony had made the night before. Instead, Tony turned back to the one place where he still found something resembling joy. 

A boy and a girl, side by side. One wrapped in pink, the other wrapped in blue. One with dark curls, the other with barely a trace of hair on his head. One liked to cry until he was held by his father, the other a bit more independent. One was skinnier, the other a little chubbier. Different as they were, there were two things that they shared. Brown eyes, and the unconditional love of their fathers. 

Tony liked to watch from outside the nursery, admire without touching. Touch brought on a thousand emotions, ranging from pride and joy to grief and sorrow. But to stand and watch as they moved and squirmed, legs kicking like they did from inside of their father’s womb, watching them simply exist independently, it was a beautiful thing. A beautiful thing indeed. 

“Which one’s yours?” A man inquired; a stranger. Taller than Tony was, though that wasn’t exactly hard to beat. Pale skin, light hair, warm features. A firefighter, judging by his shirt. 

“Huh?” Tony sputtered, drawn from his own thoughts and back into reality. “Oh, uh… Those two.” He pointed toward the two of them. It hurt to say that word, two instead of three. Twins instead of triplets. It stung to think about, despite having been preparing for it for days now. His third child was dead, and there was no changing it. There was no miracle that could save him now. Still, better not to burden strangers with his grief. “What about you? Which one’s yours?”

“None of them, actually.” He informed, prompting a strange glance from Tony. Either a weirdo who liked to watch other people’s kids, or a fanboy who had caught wind of where the Avenger would be giving birth and decided to try and catch a glimpse. Tony knew that he should have insisted on a private clinic, or a private wing, somewhere where they were kept away from the general population, so that no one could come to gawk. But Bruce had insisted on doing it like anyone else, refused to have anywhere shut down to make room specifically for him. Not in his nature, to turn anyone away or inconvenience anyone for his sake. Still… 

“That one over there, next to yours.” The man clarified, pointing to a baby that looked nothing like him, with dark skin and dark curls, laid in a crib next to Axel. “Someone dropped him off at my firestation back on the 29th. I was the one to find him; didn’t know what else to do with him, so I brought him here. Would’ve figured that children’s services would’ve taken him by now, but evidently there was something wrong with him. Drug baby, I think. Guess they decided to keep him for a few days, make sure that he was alright. I just came in to check on him before my shift.” 

“The… I’m sorry, the 29th?” Tony sputtered. His birthday. His children’s birthday. The baby without a family’s birthday. 

It was an idea. Maybe a bad idea, maybe the best idea he’d ever had. But Tony had a promise to keep, and he intended to keep it. He stared down at the three babies in front of him, and he saw what they were, and what they could be. Maybe it would never be the same as their own children, maybe it was too soon to think about doing something so wild after something so devastating. But they had three onesies, they had three cribs, they had three carseats. In them, Tony could see a future. In them, he could see three babies and a healthy omega. In them, he saw promise. Axel, Aileen, and Aidan. The Big Three. 

Blind luck, coincidence, or maybe a goddamn miracle. But for the first time in five days, Tony smiled.


End file.
